MakingHistory
The challenges of writing history for television are formidable. But if historians don’t get
involved, they will cede ground to those less qualified, warns Suzannah Lipscomb.
On and Off Script
IT IS SCRIPTING TIME again, the time
of the year when, as well as my regular
teaching and writing work, I am
working on scripts for a new history
documentary series: a collaborative
endeavour involving me, my fellow
historian-presenter, the director and
executive producers, with occasional
interventions from channel com-
missioners. The difficult process of
constructing a workable script is made
more so by the fact that it is a docu-
drama; the story is presented both
through historians talking to camera
and by a cinematic dramatisation of
events. At the same time, I have histo-
rian friends working as consultants on
big-budget dramas and, like everyone
else, as winter draws in, I am a fan of
the box set, often historical in scope.
What I feel I have learnt from
scripting, from chats with historical
consultants and from what I view, is
the fairly obvious lesson that drama
– the dramatic needs of the viewer,
such as urgency and pace, emotional
empathy and storytelling – often pulls
in different directions to history. The
less obvious lesson is that to write
a script for a history show, drama or
documentary, is to be drawn into a
philosophical discussion about what
we can know of the past and how we
can know it.
Working on a script often involves
the correction of historical detail:
that although Katherine of Aragon
was Spanish, her hair was auburn not
black; that the Tudors did not wear
off-the-shoulder numbers; and, often,
that things happened in a different
order historically to events in the
script, however much the storytelling
would work if it were otherwise. These
are frustrating but remediable.
It is more complex to know how
to respond to other suggestions: for
example, not to introduce too many
characters, so that the public can
follow who everyone is, or to recreate
a conversation that may not have
happened, however much the sources
imply it must have done, or to make
word-based events visual. The signing
of a treaty might be historically imp-
ortant but it is not great TV. There are
only so many times an audience wants
to watch a character write a letter,
even if historians feel on firm ground
with treaties and letters because they
The historian can be trampled
underfoot by the elephantine
weight of big money’s pursuit
of compelling drama
survive. Should dialogue lean more
towards authenticity or intelligibility?
How can one minimise cliché and
hyperbole, while keeping people
watching (in an age where everything
is ‘iconic’ and ‘deadly’ and ‘never seen
before’)? How does one reconcile
the values of the past with our own,
without falling into anachronism?
Above all, there is the question
of certainty. There is a limit to our
knowledge of the past. Becoming a
Working on the script: Yvonne Furneaux in La Dolce Vita, 1959.
historian is all about learning what
those limits are. It means knowing the
sort of questions one can ask about
the past and what the sources will not
deliver. One colleague reports that he
has been asked by scriptwriters – when
objecting to an egregious departure
from the historical record – ‘can you
prove it didn’t happen?’ This is to take
the historical method and invert it; the
historian can be trampled underfoot
by the elephantine weight of big
money’s pursuit of compelling drama.
In dramatisations, certainty is
tricky. Much of the time the mystery
of studying the past comes from not
knowing why people acted as they did.
We can accumulate evidence, we can
compare accounts, we can speculate,
but often we cannot actually know.
Few people in the 16th century left ac-
counts of why they acted as they did.
Even when they did, people are often
dishonest with themselves. We cannot
necessarily say if two people were in
love, or why a ruler showed mercy, or
whether someone secretly harboured
a deep hatred of an ostensible friend.
We can only judge by a person’s
actions. But actors playing historical
characters can introduce certainty
with a flash of their eyes – a look of
lust or contempt or pity – and the case
is suddenly all sewn up.
It boils down to this: audiences
and profit determine that these pro-
grammes will be made. If historians
decide it is all too difficult and cede the
territory to the people who ask if you
can prove something did not happen,
then all hope of historical drama and
documentaries having even a hint of
the historical about them becomes
faint. So, once more, into the breach …
hand me that script and let’s pull
some teeth.
Suzannah Lipscomb is Senior Lecturer in Early
Modern History at New College of the Humanities.
DECEMBER 2016 HISTORY TODAY 31
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